My sister and I returned to my father’s nursing home later in the day of his death. Their staff had already taken down the photos of each of our cats that had been on the bulletin board, and put magazines and books, stacked up over the past two years, into a box on the floor under the window. We stuffed most of his clothes into clean garbage bags, and decided to donate them to the facility, where they will be reused by other men. His shoes, some with lots more wear in them, would go to Goodwill.
We carried out a small chest of drawers Bonnie had put together for him, and his walker, two photographs taken on May Day 2009, and just a few odds and ends. The rest stayed behind as we walked, for the last time, back down the hall to the nursing station, past the common room that his mind often transformed into the 1940’s Commercial Club on Bethel Street, and to the elevator, down to the small lobby, and into the cramped parking lot.
There just wasn’t much left.
A friend from Austin, Texas left a response to my comment about my dad not returning in my dreams. She wrote:
My father and I have a deal: when he crosses over, if it’s at all possible, he’ll get back in touch to tell me what’s up. That said, I’ve had subtle signs from those that have passed that all is well.
You’ve had a long good bye with your dad, so watch for those subtle signs – it could be documents you stumble across that make a mental connection, a ringing phone, a person who comes into your life with a message, or even an emotion/vision that comes over you that you know is from him – you never know. It’s mysterious and wonderful, this continuum of life.
Subtle signs?
I got up at just about my normal time Monday morning, 4:45 a.m.
I made my way to the dining table, trying my best not to trip over the cats that were lobbying hard for breakfast.
I turned on an overhead light, then dimmed it down.
My laptop was waiting, and I still had to complete the little photo gallery of the weekend’s dogs. There was a stack of several portable hard drives next to the computer because I spent some time Sunday afternoon looking for “the” photo to accompany my dad’s obituary.
I grabbed the top one, which I thought had the latest photos.
As I lifted it, I turned it over to read my handwritten label. It was upside down, but I read: “Photos John Lind”. That was a surprise, both because I thought the latest drive had been on the top of the stack, and because I didn’t recall labeling a “John Lind” drive. But, I thought, let’s see what’s on it.
So I plugged it in, booted into Lightroom, my image library software. It immediately opened to the dogs playing on the beach, which meant that it was the latest drive after all.
Now I picked it up again, turned it over. This time the label was quite clear: “Photos June 2010.” That’s how I marked it, with the first month it sent into service.
Perhaps my eyes, stress, and the early hour, had simply played tricks the first time around. Just a silly little thing, perhaps.
But I thought of that comment about little signs.
Who knows?
My commentary broadcast yesterday on Hawaii Public Radio was on the issue of death with dignity. It’s available for listening on the HPR web site.
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Mine happened 15 years after my father passed. I needed to find some articles on Hui Nalu for the anniversary (my father was on their first canoe to win the Moloka’i Hoe). Along with articles on Hui Nalu, I found hundreds of clippings on development, tourism capacity, Hawaiian culture and OHA – all the things I had been involved in for the past 5 years. After the shock, I cried knowing that even though my father never spoke to me about these things, his mana about them had passed to me.
Your father’s mana is very strong. Don’t be surprised if more signs appear. E malama pono.
E kala mai. Meant to say I looked in my father’s briefcase, which hadn’t been opened since he died. I still get choked up thinking about it!
Judy died about 6:05 PM. Next morning, about 7:00 AM, I wanted something out of the car. Opened patio door, stepped out and there is the biggest deer I have ever seen. First thought: it’s Judy and she’s OK. Went back inside and into the garage through interior passages. Looked out the big window in the garage; deer is looking at me, but is very calm and relaxed. Back to kitchen, telephone rings. Laura and Jim are about about two road miles away; tell them not to speed, but please get here as quickly as they can. Not a word about deer. They arrive and I show them the deer. First words out of Laura’s mouth, “It’s Mom and she’s OK”. Jim agrees. We feed deer two apples and stays around till about 4:30 PM. Deer is still here; has broken “elbow” on left foreleg. Judy broke left humerous in early 90’s. Yes, your dad will let you know he’s all right!
I think that you may be less predisposed to “signs” than most people because you have such a rich record of your father’s life and you seem to have been burdened with few regrets about your relationship with him. And as someone once noted in similar circumstances: “No sign is a sign”. As for dreams of your father, vivid and consoling, I expect you will have many.
Best wishes on losing your Dad. You made us feel like we knew him.
Ian.
The night before my mother passed away, at around 11 or so, I finally got home and laid down in my bed. Just as I was about to enter the sleeping realm, I had a vision of my mother. It was not the sick woman that I had left a couple of hours ago at the nursing home. It was instead my mother from the late 1970’s complete in some peach coloured jumpsuit. She was decked out with her leather patch purse. She looked at me and as she did, I saw visions of my mother and I throughout the years.
The images stopped playing, and there was my mother again, standing there with a black backdrop behind her. She said to me “Okay, it’s time for me to go, get some sleep.” and with that my body went into one of the most deepest sleeps I have experienced for a while.
The next morning, the news came to me in a voicemail that my mother had passed away. I knew that she wanted my father and I to be rested for her passing. I am grateful that she gave us that rest, because the next couple of days were rough, but manageable because we were rested.
Sometimes visions come to help us move to the next step. You might have already been there, and your dad already knew that. All my sympathies on your fathers passing.
That photo is so very powerful. Considering how big a hole is left by those who have departed, it’s amazing how little actual stuff may remain–and what does remain becomes a strange synecdoche. I still remember my dad returning from the hospital with Tom’s slippers and setting them down on the table where I was studying for a test. They still bore the shape of his feet.
Your dad is fortunate to have such a good caretaker of his photos, his ephemera, and everything else he left behind. Thanks again for sharing your journey, Ian.
i’m so sorry to learn about your father’s passing. what a life he lived and how fortunate that the two of you shared so many wonderful years together. it is a transition of sorts; i suspect you’ll be having more adventures with him as this is not the end…